


He Can't Breathe

by ladyoneill



Series: Dark Side Of The Moon [36]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Babies, Crucifixion, Forced Bonding, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyoneill/pseuds/ladyoneill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't breathe.  He can only pull himself by causing himself tearing agony.  He's going to die because hunters think he's an abomination and his daughter is never going to know him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Can't Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fullmoon ficlet prompt "breathless", the ficlet depicts the violence of crucifixion. Currently the last story in the series (but not the final one, don't worry) and I named their daughter. I have the fic in which they name her in my head along with several others, many thanks to wonderful suggestions from readers (keep 'em coming!) but I've been sick all week with no energy to write. Hopefully on the mend now and will get some more written tomorrow. ETA: Oops, this is also for the hurt/comfort bingo card prompt "crucifixion". Duh.

After several hours his voice is ruined. When he screams, no sound comes out, and, as his magic lifts him just enough, he drags in air. But each lift causes the healing wounds in his palms to tear again.

The blood that drips from them is cool and tacky. He's bleeding out, so his magic instinctively tries to heal him, but then he can't breathe again.

It's a vicious circle all leading to his inevitable death.

He whimpers and his head drops, chin to chest, and he's so exhausted, and the pain is unreal.

The tendons in his neck pull, his collarbones creak. If one or both snap, that's it. He's dead. His weight is already strangling him slowly, painfully. If the bones break...

Gasping for another breath, he feels his chest constrict, his lungs throb, and he concentrates, bites his lip, and lifts himself again.

The nails tear through his palms and while his screams are soundless, the tears pouring salt into his cracked and bloody lips haven't dried up yet.

He's not dead yet.

There's a joke there. 

Wrong Monty Python movie.

His mind is drifting from oxygen deprivation. That's not a good sign.

He lowers himself as carefully as he can, breathing as deeply as he can, and the agony from his hands, his feet, swamp him. He has to fight to breathe through it, not waste any of the air he can get, and he's thankful they didn't break his knees and stick thorns on his head because the pain is already horrific.

Unwittingly his body shifts, and the spike through his feet pulls and he can't even scream at the shock that lashes through him.

Too much. Too fucking much.

Sadistic bastard hunters.

Peter.

Oh God, he wants his mate. He wants him here when he dies. He wants to be held and comforted and...

Lily.

An image of his daughter swims through the fog of his mind and he forces himself up again, forces a breath again, because she's so little and she needs him and she won't even remember him and...

A howl sounds and he knows it's in his head, wishful thinking, because they snatched him when no one was around, bragged about leaving false scent trails, made him go without a struggle so that there was no evidence left behind, on the promise they wouldn't hurt his mongrel brat.

They called her that. His beautiful little wolf. He'll never get to see her shift, see if she can shift to full wolf like Peter believes, what the color of her coat will be.

He'll never see her grow up.

He can't breathe.

Eyes falling shut, he hangs there and hears his heart roaring in his ears, mingling with the howls coming closer and closer.

Not real.

Too late.

He can't breathe.

*****

Stiles feels something brushing his face and it slowly brings him awake. His eyelids are heavy, crusty, and there's something over his mouth and an ache in his throat and pain in his hands and feet and...oh...

Blinking, he sees his daughter sitting next to him, propped up by the broad hand of her father, as she pats at his face and gurgles. 

Past her, he can see Peter, one hip on the bed, one hand on his chest drawing out his pain. His crimson eyes are full of too much emotion and the wolf is just beneath the surface.

Even though he knows he was dead at the time, he can hear the hunters' screams as the Pack tore them apart. He knows that Peter's attention was solely on him, taking him down from the cross, giving him his own breath. His magic tells him these things.

Peter saved him.

Stiles is breathing through a tube right now but he's breathing.

He's breathing.

His eyes meet Peter's and there's no need for words between them. 

Stiles slips back to sleep knowing he's alive and safe and breathing.

End


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